


clutch the secrets that slip between

by Matriaya



Category: All Elite Wrestling
Genre: M/M, just dryhumping basically, porn with feeling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26159350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Matriaya/pseuds/Matriaya
Summary: Sometimes, with anger, words are too much. Sometimes, touch is enough.
Relationships: Trent Barreta/Chuck Taylor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	clutch the secrets that slip between

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this image right here.](https://chuckiescassidy.tumblr.com/post/627632851344637952/hangmanchuckiet-x)  
> Basically, shirtless dudes in jeans making out is hot.  
> title taken from ['The Sky' by Fred Slusher](https://www.wattpad.com/944625124-broken-spine-chapbook-the-sky)

The match is shit. Absolute shit. Trent takes in the line of Chuck’s shoulders, the rigid way he grips his water bottle, chugs it all down, let’s the water slip past his lips and onto his chest without pause; Trent can tell he’s pissed. Uncaring. A singular hard line of muscle that’s practically vibrating with anger, and Trent’s hesitant to even touch him. 

  
  


Orange disappears as soon as they’re through the tunnel, but Chuck doesn’t notice, stalking down the cement hallway without looking at anyone, not making eye contact, not accepting platitudes or friendly high fives. 

Trent shoots a crestfallen Marko an apologetic look as he follows close behind Chuck, not in small part because he’s slightly concerned Chuck will punch a hole in the first non-cement wall he finds. 

“Chuck.”

His voice is quiet, but the concrete amplifies it, so he knows Chuck hears him. He doesn’t stop though, a single focused blur moving forward towards an unknown goal, and so Trent does something stupid, and yanks him into a deserted dressing room. 

He locks the door and turns around, in time to watch the rage erupt red and hot across Chuck’s face.

“What the fuck!” Chuck yells, trying to shove past Trent, open the door, escape out again, but Trent pushes him back, stands his ground. 

“Move.” 

It’s not a request. The word is ground out like chewed glass, and Trent thinks very briefly about complying, because maybe it would help, maybe Chuck being alone would be better, but then he sees it, just for an instant - the hot flash of shame, of disappointment in Chuck’s gaze, and it quietly punches Trent in the chest. 

Fuck.

“Chuck.” He says his name again, softer this time, and knows - _ knows - _ that Chuck doesn’t do this, doesn’t do the emotions thing, not really, not out loud, doesn’t like to be seen this way, but Trent doesn’t actually give two fucks about playing eggshell hopscotch with him today. 

“No.”

Trent watches in real time the way Chuck’s jaw gets even tighter, the way his fingers curl up into his palms until his grubby nails are digging half circles into them. 

What he wants quite desperately to do is pull Chuck in for a hug, tell him it’s going to be okay, tell him they will do better next time, that he isn’t a failure or a fuck up or any of the thousands of other insults Chuck so often whispers to himself when he thinks no one else can hear. 

But he also knows that is not what Chuck needs right now. That if he tries to be gentle now, Chuck will pull away further. 

The AC in the room is on full blast, chilling the sweat that dries on his own chest. They’re both wearing blue jeans - “it’ll match! It’ll be fun!” - harder to move in, traps the heat more, and Trent wishes they’d decided to go with their normal trunks instead, but too late now. 

He shoves Chuck.

Bodily.

Down onto the ratty leather sofa that’s already dotted with someone’s duffle bag and an abandoned t-shirt. Chuck’s eyes flare in anger, even hotter than before, and opens up his mouth to protest, but Trent’s on top of him in a flash, pinning him down to the leather, kicking away the duffle bag with one jab of his foot.

He’s rewarded with a groan.

Fuck, he would ride into hell if it meant Chuck made that noise more often.

Chuck’s still tense, a wound up spring as Trent stretches out on top of him, skin against skin, denim against denim, Trent can feel him shaking beneath him as he buries his face in Chuck’s neck, bites down gently. 

Chuck’s hands find purchase on Trent’s back, raking stubby nails through the sweat and grime. 

“Did you lock the door?” he asks.

Trent pulls away for just a moment, gives him a glare.

“Yes of course I fucking locked the door.”

As if half the crew didn’t know they were fucking, as if anyone actually gave a shit. 

And then he gets it, the very briefest of smiles, but it’s like sunlight during a rainstorm, lighting up Chuck’s face and it’s god damn beautiful. 

Trent grins full force at him, grinds his hips down against Chuck’s, leans down again to lick at his throat. 

More of that. He needs more of Chuck’s smile, injected directly into his veins. 

The anger isn’t gone, not by any means, and Trent can feel it bleeding through Chuck’s fingers as he claws up his back, in the hook of one leg over his, hard, unrelenting, keeping them together. 

“You were so hot out there,” Trent moans into his ear, and Chuck’s opening his mouth to protest, the long list of failures of the match queued up on his tongue, ready to spill out, so Trent presses his lips hard against Chuck’s, grinds his hips down even more. 

The couch is not small, but also isn’t meant for two large men to be fucking around on it, and the leather creaks ominously beneath them.

If they break the couch, they’ll get hell from the others, but Trent can’t be arsed to care. Each thrust of his hips against Chucks pressed their dicks together, tears a little noise of pleasure from Chuck’s mouth. 

Maybe if they weren’t so keyed up from the match, weren’t wearing such unforgiving fabric, but they are, and they are, and Trent has one goal in mind now, and that’s to make Chuck come his brains out.

“Dude,” Chuck seems to have given up all pretense of anger in favor of the pleasure that stripes across his face. “Gonna come in my pants if you don’t slow down.”

Not a command. Just an observation.

Trent is so fucking gone for him, it’s ridiculous.

He grins, drops a soft kiss onto Chuck’s lips. Reaches up one hand to grip the arm of the couch, the other pushed slightly under Chuck, squashed between leather and skin. 

“Good.”

The flush is spreading down Chuck’s chest now, breath coming in pants as Trent raises himself up just a little, rides Chuck hard. Doesn’t matter that he’s fucking exhuasted from their match, or that they both desperately need showers. Chuck throws his head back, exposing the long line of his throat which Trent leans down, licks up, hot and wet. 

Chuck’s fingers dig hard into the denim at his sides. Trent thinks briefly about trying to get their pants off, to let Chuck fuck him in earnest, but fighting with belts is too much effort, and Trent’s already starting to see stars behind his eyelids from the friction. 

“Fuck, Trent, I -” 

The words fall hot and heavy between them, and Trent grins. 

Chuck’s starting to shake beneath him now, he’s so damn close, Trent can read it in his uneven breathing, in the unsteady pistoning of his hips. 

“Do it.” Trent says, and Chuck grips him hard by the back of the neck, drags him down into a frantic kiss that’s entirely tongue and teeth, and sobs out his orgasm into the cavern of Trent’s mouth. 

Trent isn’t far behind, because fuck, Chuck coming like that was liquid fire in his veins, just a few more thrusts and he collapses on top of Chuck, burying his face in the sweaty crook of his neck. 

It takes a few seconds for the roaring of blood in his ears to calm, to focus on the slow rise and fall of Chuck’s chest beneath him. 

He feels Chuck’s fingers card through his sweaty hair, tugging out the black headband that had worked its way loose. It’s these moments he loves the most. These soft, intimate fragments he can push together later that form his heart.

He won’t say I love you. Not this time. Chuck knows. He’s told Chuck before, reassured him a thousand times of his love both as a friend and as a lover, but Chuck’s never said it back, and the mood doesn’t feel right this time, so he keeps the words tucked up tight inside him.

When he finally looks down at Chuck, those pretty green eyes are soft, the ghost of anger dissipated.

“I’m fucking gross, dude,” Chuck says around a soft smile. “I can’t believe you made me come in my pants.” 

Trent kisses him once more, lingering, sweet, and then hauls himself upright. He definitely has a cum stain on his jeans, and it’s uncomfortable, but totally worth it. 

“Someone’s got to have shorts we can steal,” he says as he grabs one of Chuck’s hands, pulls him up to his feet.

For a moment, a brief moment, he looks at Chuck, and he’s  _ positive _ Chuck was going to say… something. Maybe not I love you. Maybe not the words Trent’s waited so long to hear. But there is an unguarded fondness to Chuck then and it’s breathtaking. 

Then Chuck hipchecks him, and the look is gone, replaced by his usual teasing grin. 

Trent files the look away to examine later when he’s alone. For now, it’s enough that Chuck is smiling again. 

  
  



End file.
